The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  “And just what were you thinking about me?”

  Feeling awkward, Al chose the familiar.

  “I was thinking about your case.”

  Not true, exactly, but not quite a lie, either, for he had thought of it earlier in the day.

  “What about it?”

  “The positive aspects and the problems.”

  “But,” she said, sipping her wine, “you do believe we’ll win it?”

  “I would have felt better if Rosenkrantz weren’t representing Jonas. He’s a shrewd and cagey guy. That letter Jonas sent you is our strongest argument but I’m sure they’ve anticipated its possible use and are concocting some cover story. That’s where the problems come in. We’ll need outside confirmation; some testimony that will support our version of things.”

  “How will we get that?”

  “I’ve been working on it,” Al answered and looked up to see the waiter, at his side, attentively holding the menus.

  They talked about their hunger, of the subdued atmosphere, and the niceness of being in a warm spot on a cold night. By the time hors d’oeuvres arrived, Al had returned to their lawsuit. How would they validate Arlene’s story? Maybe they could find someone who saw her and Jonas together in a “nontherapeutic” way; getting plastered at P. J. Clark’s, his entering her apartment, or buying gifts for her. They’d have to retrace all the places Arlene and the doctor visited. Photographs of Jonas would be needed, but that was no problem. Al was sure he could obtain some. It was a long shot, but worth the effort.

  “And if we don’t come up with anyone?” Arlene asked.

  “Then we implement plan number two.”

  “Which is?”

  “Publicity.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Shake the beetles from the woodwork. I’ve got a close friend at The Voice—Gene Lowenstein—and another at the New York Post who’d give their eye teeth for an advance story about this case. The papers would reach a lot more people than we ever could.

  “Who knows what reader might come forward with corroborative evidence? Some character who remembers seeing you together. Or another patient that Lippman put the make on. Who’s to say you were the only one he was ever involved with? And the notoriety will make it much harder for him to line up supportive witnesses.”

  Arlene nodded affirmatively. He welcomed her respect. Still, he wanted something more. But how does one approach someone without appearing gross? Without seeming like some dirty or pathetic old man? Which he, most certainly, was not.

  “More wine?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” and he emptied the bottle. Was her smile merely one of politeness? A reflection of a solid friendship? The result of several glasses of rosé? Or did he detect something more? Were he twenty-five years younger, these questions might not seem so important.

  “Ohhh,” she exclaimed as the entrees were served. “Don’t they look delicious?” Arlene offered another toast.

  “To us.”

  Al’s face flushed as he responded, “To us,” and he gulped down half the contents of his glass before he realized what he was doing.

  “Al?”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I a cause? The sort some lawyers like to take on?”

  “A cause? What do you mean?”

  “Like the Chavez farm workers or the war resisters? I mean, over and above your interest in me?”

  He looked up at her, a bit surprised by the question, thought for a moment, sipped more wine, and answered, “Yes, you are. The cause is one of professionalism—to stop unethical practices among medical specialists who are responsible to no one.”

  “But aren’t there peer review boards that deal with those things?”

  “They’re worse than nothing. Window-dressing for the American Medical Association and the local psychiatric societies. Committees that rarely censure anybody and when they do, take disciplinary action that amounts to a gentle slap on the knuckles. The various psychiatric and psychological societies are always raising a hue and cry about the dangers of unlicensed and unqualified therapists. But they don’t seem interested in policing their own. It’s just a closed union shop. Don’t entrust your mental health to unauthorized quacks. Our quacks? Ah. That’s a different story.

  “So that’s my cause, if there is any. To alert people to the Credentialed Quack. To bring therapists down to human proportions, where they can be looked at critically by their patients. Like my wife should have done.”

  “Why? How was she affected?”

  Al gritted his teeth, finished the last bite of liver, and sipped more wine.

  “Twenty-nine years of marriage. Not perfect. What is? But a very solid and decent marriage. A good one, I would say. Two grown children, a home in Scarsdale, a few close friends.

  “About three or four years ago—it’s hard to fix an exact time—Esther, my wife, became increasingly moody. It was on and off. Menopause, I thought. But last year, after a very depressed period, she decided to see a psychiatrist; some Hungarian whom her best friend recommended.

  “Did he refer her for a medical checkup? No. Or prescribe hormone treatments? No. Instead, it was five-times-a-week psychoanalysis. ‘A restructuring of personality,’ he called it. ‘That’s what she needed.’ Like she was some twenty-year-old starting out her adult life instead of a fifty-one-year-old woman well past its midpoint.”

  “And did you object?”

  “At first there was nothing to object to. She saw this guy once or twice a week for a month. By the time he suggested intensive therapy she was hooked. I told her it was the most ridiculous idea I’d ever heard of. Five times a week at sixty dollars a shot. For what?

  “‘Just another example of your insensitivity to my feelings,’ she said. Another example? It was the first time I’d ever heard her talk that way.

  “I went along with it for a while. What choice did I have? I loved her, wanted her to feel better, and thought … hell. Who knows. Maybe something will come of it in a month or two. Or she’ll come to her senses. Only she didn’t.

  “The longer she saw that guy—it’s ironic, really, for he’s one of the high muck-a-mucks at Jonas’ precious Analytic Institute—the worse things became. The less she’d talk to me.

  “‘What do you tell that guy?’ I’d ask. ‘I’d rather not say,’ she’d answer. ‘Dr. Cherkowski said that discussing my sessions would be counterproductive.’

  “So I tried to see the guy. All I wanted to find out was what was happening. But he wouldn’t talk to me either. ‘Not without the patient’s permission.’ I tell you, I was fit to be tied. It was costing me three hundred dollars a week, our relationship was deteriorating, and no one would tell me what was going on.”

  “So tell me,” Arlene pressed, “what finally happened?”

  “I insisted I wanted some explanations or I’d be damned if I’d continue paying the bills. And she told me she was tired of being a nonperson; fed up with being under my control. That her doctor had been right. I had suppressed her development, made her my chattel, and it was time to be free. Like Nora, in A Doll’s House, she was going to leave.

  “I couldn’t believe what was happening. A theatrical parody except that real people were involved. Shortly after that she went to an attorney, filed for divorce, and I moved out. Luckily,” he looked admiringly at the dessert which had just been placed before him, “I landed in your building.”

  “Wow,” she shook her head. “What a story.”

  “It became even more frustrating. I inquired around the Institute. Discovered that Cherkowski was divorced three times himself. Is this a man who knows how to make a marriage work? Is this the great mental health expert?

  “I wrote to the Institute complaining about his failure to see me. ‘Sorry, but that’s a matter for you to take up with the analyst involved,’ they answered. But I couldn’t. All he’d say was, ‘If you have a strong feeling about your wife’s treatment, I’d be glad to refer you to a colleague.’ The
putz. Treating me like one of his idolatrous patients.

  “Eventually I wrote to the New York County branch of the American Psychiatric Association. Again they gave me short shrift.”

  “So Jonas is part of that system.”

  “Precisely.”

  They drank their coffee, Al paid the bill, and they left. Walking home, the cold didn’t seem as bothersome as Arlene pressed against him. The combination of good food, good wine, good company and cathartic conversation had left him feeling especially high. Until, that is, they reached their building. For he did not want the night to end.

  “Al?”

  “Yes?”

  “It was a lovely night.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I did, too.”

  She lingered. Seemed hesitant. What should he say? What could he do?

  “Look.…” She stared and fiddled with the buttons on his coat. “Would you mind coming in to my place? I’ve a Christmas gift I want to give you.”

  Mind? He was ecstatic. He took her key, opened her door and they entered.

  “Now close your eyes,” and like an aging puppy he eagerly obeyed his mistress’ command. Eyes shut, with arms at his sides, he heard her latch the door and switch off the light. Sensing her approach, he wondered what his present would be.

  “Your gift,” she whispered in his ear, “is me.”

  26

  It started at nine-thirty. Thursday, January fifteenth. During Gladys Needlman’s session. A ring from the telephone. “Hello, Dr. Lippman here,” and a man’s voice on the other end of the wire.

  “Hello, Doctor. This is Todd Russell, Channel 2 News. We’ve just had word that a lawsuit is being brought against you on the basis of having sex with a patient of yours, a Miss Arlene Lewis. Might it be possible for us to come by and interview you for tonight’s six P.M. report?”

  “No.”

  Jonas pulled the receiver from his ear before Russell could ask another question and quickly placed it back on its holder. He was shaking with rage, fear, disbelief. How did they get wind of this? Why? Who told? What did they expect him to say? Could he possibly put aside his questions and anxieties and listen to his suicidally depressed patient? He needed someone to talk to himself. All right. Calm down. As soon as she left he’d call Norman. His attorney would have sound advice.

  Just as he began to refocus, to tune in to the pain, confusion and despair of Gladys’ life, the phone rang again.

  “Robert Lederman, New York Times. I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions about the malpractice suit.”

  “Sorry. I’m with a patient,” and another abrupt hangup.

  It was obviously not a matter of one investigative reporter. Certainly he’d anticipated the possibility of publicity at the time of the trial. But hadn’t Norman assured him that they could delay that date for up to two years? Or conceivably reach a settlement before it even came to that? So why, now?

  Gladys was talking about the latest assault upon her self-esteem. She’d gone to a Vivaldi concert with two of the women in her office, as her fiancé of two years was ostensibly out of town. Then, during intermission, they’d encountered him in the lobby accompanied by one of her girlfriends. She could barely endure the second half of the program; the solicitous responses of her coworkers, the fumbled explanations of her beau who “just arrived in town and didn’t find her home,” the look of chagrin on her friend’s face.

  Feeling stupid, gullible, deceived, worthless, and deeply humiliated, she’d played with the idea of self-destruction. Pills or the pistol she kept in the bureau for self-protection? But she decided to talk things over with Jonas first.

  “I’m glad you did,” he said, as her session came to an end. “And there are a number of issues I want to take up with you if we can schedule another session tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Can you make it at eight-fifteen in the morning?”

  “Sure.” She dried her eyes with a Kleenex that she took from the stand by her chair. Then, reaching for another, blew her nose.

  “You’ve got some mascara running down your cheek,” Jonas said, helpfully, as the young woman arose to leave.

  “Thanks.” She reached for more paper tissues.

  “Take some for the road,” Jonas smiled.

  “See you tomorrow. And thanks, again.”

  Tomorrow. Later. Next week. It was amazing how often time itself healed. The promise of the next day was enough to help Gladys regain her composure. Would it, though, comfort him? Tomorrow he’d talk to her about the unimportance of one’s image; that worth was dependent on inner resources, not the opinions of others. Who, though, would convince him of this truth?

  He was about to look up Norman’s number when the telephone rang once more.

  “Hello.”

  “Dr. Jonas Lippman, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “United Press International.”

  “The doctor isn’t in.”

  As soon as he disconnected he dialed Norman. “Mr. Rosenkrantz is in court this morning,” the secretary answered.

  “When will he be back?”

  “I expect to hear from him between twelve-thirty and one P.M. I can take a leaveword.”

  “Please do. Tell him that Jonas Lippman called. That it’s an emergency and could he phone me between one and one-fifteen.”

  “I’ll convey your message.”

  Jonas fumbled for a cigarette, sucked deeply, welcomed the dizzying charge as the smoke surged through his system. Three hours to go. In the meantime he’d change the recording on his answering machine, leave it on, and avoid talking to members of the press. Returning to his desk, he picked up the microphone, pressed the record button, and began:

  “This is Dr. Lippman speaking. I’m in my office but am only taking calls from patients. If you leave your number I’ll phone you back at the first opportunity. You may begin speaking at the sound of the tone.…”

  The moment he finished, the telephone rang again. This time the device took care of his caller while Jonas ushered his ten o’clock patient into the office.

  It was all he could do to get through the hour. Or the next one with Harry Jacobs. Halfway through their meeting they were interrupted by a constant hammering from the front door. When Jonas went to see who was causing the disturbance he found a torn brassiere nailed above his nameplate. Grotesque and sickening. Beyond any semblance of decency. Yet what could he do but return to his patient?

  A constant flow of cigarettes and some doodling on his pad helped disguise his discomfort. When Harry got up to leave at eleven-fifty, Jonas nearly exploded with relief. At the very least he could pace, curse, phone and think, undistracted by his patient’s presence; free of the need to appear serene, no longer having to represent an idiotic optimism in the face of adversity.

  He again tried Norman’s office. No, he’d not called in yet. Yes, she would be certain to give him Jonas’ message. It was on the top of her list, sitting right on her desk.

  An hour more. Who to talk to? What counsel could he find? Phoebe was out, shopping at Bergdorf’s. Lunch? He had no appetite. Clear the answering machine. That would help. There’d been over half-a-dozen callers. Back to the desk, push the replay button, and listen.

  The first two had hung up without leaving a message. Then, Channel 4. Could he please call Circle 7–8300? Ask for the news desk?

  Another quick disconnect, followed by CBS-TV.

  What a deluge. When would it stop? A seductively voiced woman was next.

  “My name’s Nancy. I’m seventeen and live alone. I read all about you in today’s Voice and I love fucking older men. Call me when you get a chance at 260–8148. You won’t be sorry.…”

  Good God! So that’s where it started. The citadel of the liberal, pseudobohemian elite. The machine droned on.

  “This is Wayne Barzin. You needn’t bother phoning me. I’ll try calling you back later on.”

  The last recording was from Long John Ne
bel. He’d left his name and phone number only. Was he calling because of the story? Or was he a prospective patient? Jonas would have to phone back to be sure. But first he’d run outside, pick up another pack of cigarettes and a copy of The Voice. At least he could find out what had been written about him; what had opened this floodgate of attention from kooks and reporters.

  Grabbing his overcoat from the closet and wrapping a scarf about his neck, he moved swiftly through the waiting room to the outside door. As he pulled it open, he heard a familiar voice.

  “… standing here outside the office of Dr. Jonas Lippman.

  “And here he comes now.”

  There was a crowd of passersby assembled before his door, watching with curiosity to see what the television cameras and photographers were after.

  “Good day, Doctor. I’m Ken Stevens, ABC News. Would you care to comment on.…”

  Like some motion picture turned abruptly to slow motion, time seemed to grind to a halt. The cameramen caught him, frozen, a microphone thrust before his face; mouth agape, brows high, a look of panic and bewilderment in his eyes.

  Then, just as the film had stopped, it now sped ahead, and with choppy, rapid motions he stepped back inside, slammed the door shut and stood, trembling, behind it.

  Not yet on trial, he was already imprisoned.

  27

  “So,” Norman began, after Jonas was seated. “I talked with Al Newfield this morning—just as I told you I would.” He pushed the intercom buzzer and looked at the machine solicitously, as though he were talking to a client. “Daisy, I won’t be taking any calls for a while.”

  “And what did he say?” Hoping for a last-minute reprieve, Jonas fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and a book of matches, striking one three times before he managed to light up.

  Norman was never one to give a simple yes or no answer when a longer explanation was possible. Inhaling deeply, Jonas moved back from the edge of his chair and forced himself, with mock patience, to wait until Counselor Rosenkrantz completed his summation. Arranging some papers on his desk while looking, apparently, for a misplaced article, Norman droned on in a detached monotone. That voice, Jonas recognized by now, did not augur well.